A scream from the bathroom. The plumber's hand is severed at the wrist, gouts of blood splashing up the titles, his pale face a mask of anguish. The toilet lies half constructed, its components knocked around by the man writhing on the floor.
When the Inquisitorial Acolytes finish up their work, one of them tells me that there's a loose unborn they’ve been chasing for weeks. It appears it’s taken refuge in the sewer system, where it must have caught a whiff of the plumber’s hand in the pipes and taken a bite. The Acolyte assures me they have this in hand, Praise the Immortal Queen, as they load up the plumber’s corpse into the meat wagon.
At night I lie in bed with the door ajar, listening. There is a faint buzz coming from the bathroom. Is the unborn in there, waiting? Is it the residual memory of the plumber’s screams? Or am I just cringing in fear from the extractor fan?
Paddy Dobson
6th December 2022